Straight On 'Til Morning
by OwlKeeper186
Summary: Jack Adler has always been a dreamer. His father, however, has not. When said father comes home to find Jack playing pretend by himself, he throws himself into a drunker rage. Jack flees the scene in their plane, but when trying to follow the North Star, flies a bit too far right. Rated T just in case.


The Red Baron scanned the skies for any sign of enemy pilots. Nothing. The only sound was the choppy _thrump-thrump _of his propellers, and the mechanical purr of his engine. He adjusted his goggles warily, looping around and heading back the way he had come.

Suddenly, the air was split with the hostile growl of an enemy engine. The Red Baron rolled out of the way just in time, as a British pilot came crashing through the dense clouds. Bullets screeched past as he spiralled back into control. He closed his fingers around the triggers of the dual machine guns mounted in front of him, his arms shaking as his own fire screamed forward with a passion. The enemy pilot rolled out of the way, climbing higher, and aimed down at him. He spiralled away in the nick of time, adjusting his goggles and pulling into an Aileron roll, stopping upside-down above the enemy and firing downwards. Bullets pinged off his opponent's flank, but then suddenly he returned fire. Before he could register what was happening, there was a loud bang, and his propellers stopped, jammed. He swore vigorously in German as his plane began to plummet, spiralling steadily down. He caught his enemy's eye as he fell, and the young man removed his helmet and placed it over his heart, honoring a worthy opponent. The Red Baron tipped his own helmet as he fell, unbuckled his safety harness, and jumped from the smoking plane. He free-fell for a moment, before pulling the cord of his parachute and floating to safety below the cloud cover, out of sight of his opponent.

But suddenly, the British plane crashed through the clouds, firing with renewed vigor past him. Bullets ripped through his parachute, and he plummeted from thirty meters above the ground.

***\-/***

Jack tumbled off the arm of the couch, landing with a thud on the floor. He huffed, picking himself up and brushing himself off. Why had he ended his adventure like that? Who knew. He certainly didn't. In fact, it seemed like most of his adventures ended with him dead. Not exactly cheery.

He was fourteen. Fourteen, and still playing pretend by himself. No one knew about it but him, so why did it matter, though? But his father would be home soon, so he had stop.

Jack's father was...moody. He was gruff, untalkative, and hard to love. Aleksander Adler also had a major drinking problem. Jack had learned quickly to stay away from him whenever he smelled alcohol in the air. It wasn't entirely his fault, that drinking problem. It had started when Jack was very young. He couldn't remember it, but his mother had died when he was three years old in a car crash. She had been hit by a drunk driver, who had driven off as soon as the collision happened. The police had never been able to find the culprit, though. Jack didn't really mind, which he couldn't help thinking was wrong, but he just couldn't muster much feeling for a woman he had only ever heard of in a story. Jack's father, however, was forever scarred by his loss, which had led to the drinking, ironically. Jack would have thought drinking would be the last thing he would turn to after his wife had been killed by the noxious effects of alcohol, but that was apparently not the case. On any note, Jack's relationship with his father was not particularly good. They both, however, shared an intense love of aviation. The only quality time Jack actually spent with his father was flying in his small J160-type Jaribu plane, which his father had taught him how to fly. He loved being up in the air. It gave him a sense of freedom that he couldn't get anywhere else. He especially loved flying above the mountains near his house. It made him feel tall, strong, larger than life, which was a feeling he couldn't get down on the ground.

He was miserably short for a boy his age, standing only five feet off the ground. His nose was too large for his face, jutting out as if trying to compensate for his pathetically stubby torso. Jack was fairly sure nobody liked their nose, though, so it didn't really bother him. His legs, on the other hand, made up at least a third of his height, which was helpful when running, but gave him the appearance of a disproportionate snowman when coupled with his pale skin. He always kept his dark hair short, which he honestly felt was a mistake, but couldn't bear to let it grow out. He was also pitifully skinny, with almost no muscle to his frame. He looked as if he had just survived the Holocaust, which was unfortunate, given his German-Jewish heritage. The only thing he particularly liked about himself were his bright blue eyes, which _almost _made up for his too-small mouth. All his teeth were straight, though, so at least he had that going for him.

Jack looked around for a while, then noticed the fire was going down. Without it, the large cabin got very cold, despite the towering heating bills. He scuttled across the shag carpet and jumped onto the hardwood floor. He threw his arms out, sliding across the surface, and for a moment he was a professional snowboarder, about to hit a jump, until he gradually slowed to a stop by the fireplace. He opened the cage and grabbed the prodder hanging beside the stone hearth, stoking the dying embers with care until they leapt up again, flooding him with warmth. And for a moment a dragon towered over him, its hot breath beating across his face. He coughed as smoke wafted towards him, closing the cage again and reaching for his inhaler. Jack took a puff, then replaced it in his pocket, breathing deeply for a few moments. He listened, hearing the crunch of gravel beneath tires as his father pulled up, and darted up the spiral staircase that led to his room. He grabbed whichever book was nearest to him and flung himself onto his bed, wriggling around on top of the covers until they looked sufficiently sat on, and then flipped to a random page in the book, which turned out to be _The Book Thief. _Yeah, okay, his father would believe he was reading that again, with his obsession with both World Wars.

Jack was a history nut, but he was especially obsessed with World Wars I and II. It was evident throughout his room: There was an entire bookshelf dedicated to history books detailing every last scrap of information that was to be known about either war. Posters of World War II-era fighter planes almost completely covered one wall, which had his desk pressed up beside it covered with notebooks and loose papers. Hanging above his bed was the huge family tree that his father had done up when he was very young, and which Jack had taken the liberty of tracing in red ink the link between him and the infamous Red Baron. Against another wall was the bookshelf that proudly housed all his fictional books, a hefty collection that he maintained with care.

Jack had designed his room's layout with precision and tireless care, and he loved it to death. His father didn't usually come up there, either, which was also a plus. He could even see the hangar from his one, small window, which always made him feel more secure about it, even though he doubted anyone would even be this far from the tiny town of Casper, Wyoming. If they were, they were probably just lost, and wouldn't be plotting Grand Theft Aero, but he still worried about his father's plane.

The front door opened and closed with a _bang! _that sent Jack tumbling off his bed, book in hand. His father stomped into the house, and Jack could imagine him throwing his boots to the side like last week's paper. Great, something must've happened at work to tick him off.

Aleksander Adler worked as an aerospace engineer in Casper College's aviation building. He was good at his job, good with numbers and science. Jack, however, was not, which clearly upset his father. Mr. Adler was not well-liked by most of his colleagues, an unfortunate trait that hapless Jack had managed to inherit. His only true friend was Henry Wallace, who towered almost a foot over him, but still thought of him as an equal, which Jack appreciated. They both shared the love of history, although Henry's forte was American history, and Henry would draw the most amazing pictures. In fact, many of his friend's pictures had managed to make their way onto Jack's poster wall above his desk.

"Jack!" his father barked up the stairs. Jack flung his book back onto his bed and sped down the stairs, stopping obediently at the bottom. He would have preferred to avoid his father at a time like this, but ignoring him would have been as good as jumping off the roof. His father scratched his thick black beard, scrutinizing his son.

"Why are you so short?" he asked. This was a familiar question, the one he had labelled as the Drunk Question. Indeed, his father's eyes were just slightly unfocused, and the smell of alcohol permeated the air.

"Because my genetic code dictates that I be shorter rather than taller." Jack replied. It was a rehearsed answer, and it sounded monotonous and shrewd coming from his mouth, but his father wouldn't notice that. Usually.

"Are you saying it's my fault?" his father asked, raising an eyebrow. How was he supposed to answer _that? _

"It may be, seeing as I get fifty-percent of my DNA from you, but it may also be a recessive trait that was transferred to me from an earlier generation." Jack said after a long pause, choosing each word carefully. His father digested that, then nodded, as if accepting an offer. Jack released a breath he hadn't realized he had been holding. Jack's father crossed the room, and Jack followed carefully behind him, not sure if he had been released or not. He stopped by the couch, pointing down at the boy-shaped imprint in the shag carpet.

"What's this from?" he asked. Jack kept a straight face, but cursed inside his head.

"I was sitting on the couch arm, and I fell off." he explained.

"And what were you doing sitting on the couch arm?" his father questioned.

"Thinking." Jack said, a little too quickly. Well, it wasn't _really _a lie.

"And why were you sitting on the couch arm thinking, instead of on the couch?" his father asked.

"Because the couch didn't have the right feel." Jack answered without thinking. His father looked at him for a moment, and Jack subconsciously started picking at his nails, an unhealthy habit he had never been able to shake.

"Jack..." his father began. His tone of voice was cool, but Jack could tell he was ready to snap at any moment.

"Yes?" Jack said, adding a respectful "sir" after second thought.

"What were you thinking about, while sitting on the couch arm, that needed a certain 'feel?'" his father asked, slowly. His voice was dangerously quiet now. Jack knew he couldn't get away with a lie now.

"I was..." Jack began. "Uhm, I was pretending I was the Red Baron during a dogfight, and the couch arm felt more like a plane seat that the couch."

"You were playing pretend." his father said. It wasn't a question.

"Yes sir." Jack answered nervously.

"Like a child." his father embellished.

"Y-Yes sir." Jack repeated, with less confidence. His father stared at him with that dangerous, unfocused stare.

"What does it take to make you _grow up?!" _his father screamed. Jack hopped fearfully backwards, recoiling from his father's sudden explosion. Aleksander Adler spun around, stomping angrily up the spiral staircase. Jack followed fearfully behind him, keeping a safe distance between himself and his father. He expected his father would storm into his own room and throw something like a pillow at him (he had experience with his father's drunken outbreaks.) To his surprise, though, he turned sharply left and flung open the door to Jack's room. Jack scuttled in behind him, cowering like a fearful dog with its tail between its legs. Aleksander Adler tore into his beloved space, beelining for his bookshelves. He knocked them to the floor with a vicious pull, sending books flying everywhere.

"No!" Jack screamed, horrified by his father's actions. His father ignored him, taking to his son's prized poster wall and yanking his posters and Henry's drawings alike off the polished wood, crumpling them in his fist and tossing them aside. He leapt onto Jack's bed and tore the family tree from the wall, throwing the case with all his might at the floor. Glass flew across the floor, fleeing the monstrous scene, and angry tears sprang to Jack's eyes.

"What's wrong with you?!" he screeched, staring with horror at the broken remnants of his room.

"You need to get your head out of the clouds, Jackson!" his father screamed back at him.

"I HATE YOU!" Jack wailed. "I HATE YOU SO MUCH!" He grabbed his bomber jacket from its hook by the door (the only thing his father hadn't touched) and tore from the room, almost falling down the stairs. He jammed his feet into his combat boots by the front door and flung it open, throwing himself with one almighty heave outside and sprinting down the long road towards the hangar. He wiped tears out of his eyes as he ran, ignoring his father's screams that he come back here, this instant. He skidded and slid on the icy road (it was the middle of January) but didn't lose his footing, didn't stop, and didn't look back. At last he made it into the hangar and ran to the front, heaving the heavy metal doors open. Panting, still crying, he sprinted back and hopped into the plane, hurriedly sliding and latching the door shut as he saw his father enter the hangar with him. Still ignoring the blasphemous man, he started the engines up, wiping tears from his eyes as he checked the pressure gauges. With no time to waste, he rolled forward, gaining speed as he exited the hangar. The plane slipped and slid on the icy runway, but he kept it under control, and soon there were only two wheels on the ground. He adjusted the wings and pulled the plane upwards, and then he was airborne, soaring above the estate, above the forest, and, most importantly, above his father. He set the plane in autopilot and went about checking the supplies he had: his bomber jacket, a packet of matches, a flare gun, a canteen, his inhaler, and a dagger in its sheath. He wiped the last of his tears away with the heel of his hand and set to work. First, he pulled his bomber jacket on over his long-sleeved green tee, grateful for the extra warmth. He transferred the matches to one of the many pockets of his cargo pants, then slung the canteen over his shoulder, noticing with a frown that it was empty. Then he strapped the dagger to his belt (just in case) and fashioned a makeshift holster for the flare gun with an old sash that had been stuck in one of the pockets on his jacket. He then situated himself in his seat, switched off the autopilot, and steered himself further upwards. He wanted to get far, far away from his father, from Wyoming, even. But where would he go? Jack leaned forward over the controls and peered up at the quickly darkening sky. He could just make out the North Star, suspended in the twilit haze. He turned to follow it, determined not to look back, and glad to have some sort of reference. Soon he had almost forgotten about the events that had transpired at the Adler Estate, caught up in his thoughts and the thrill of flying. He didn't care that he didn't have his piloting license yet. That didn't matter, he was already stealing the plane. He didn't care where he was going, he just wanted to fly, to clear his head. And it was working well for him, so far.

***\-/***

The storm had picked during the last hour or so. Jack leaned over the controls, carefully monitoring the wing positions and pressure gauges, making sure everything was working exactly how it was supposed to. As he glanced upward, looking for the North Star, he was dismayed to see nothing but the polar vortex that buffeted him from each side, jerking the plane this way and that. It wasn't as if he actually needed to follow it, but it had become a sort of obsession for him in the worsening weather, a game that stopped him from being afraid. As he scanned the black sky, he could barely make out the steady white glow of a single star. And it _must _have been Polaris, because what other star could shine that brightly at a time like this? So Jack adjusted his course, following the only visible star in the sky like it was a saint. He barely noticed the sound of the howling wind slowly die away, or the other pinpricks of light that popped back into view as the flurry subsided. In fact, he was so absorbed by the star's brilliant light that he didn't even notice the change in temperature. The air that had once been bitterly cold grew warmer and warmer, until it was like a pleasant summer's night.

He did, however, notice the ticking of the gas light.


End file.
